Holding Positions
by J.A. Hastings
Summary: John wants to become rugby captain and win a scholarship. Sherlock wants to be able to dance to Tchaikovsky. They both need money. Love is in the air.


**JOHN**

"Watson! You're late, again!"

John turned around to face his red-faced coach.

"Sorry, sir. Won't happen again."

"You said so last week, and yet here you are, ten minutes after we started." He huffed loudly before looking around the field. "Your teammates have already warmed up and are ready to practice throws, and because of you, they'll have to start later. Get changed and run ten laps, no rest between them."

Without another word, he turned on his feet and marched towards a group of boys who were sitting on the ground whispering amongst themselves.

John sighed and adjusted the bag he was carrying on his shoulder. This was madness and it had to stop. He couldn't afford to show up late for practice if he wanted to make captain next year. With a determined nod he headed towards the locker room.

Only to be intercepted by Mike and Billy.

"John! We thought you were a goner." Billy said dramatically before hugging John. Mike rolled his eyes.

"Ignore him, just like every day." He said. John grinned at him before playfully swatting Billy in the arm, making his friend release him.

Billy put an arm around him as the three started walking in the direction of the sports building. "Seriously though, you should have heard Callaghan going on and on about you and your tardiness a few minutes ago! He looked as if he was gonna murder you, mate! We were scared for your life."

Mike laughed. "He's being dramatic and exaggerating everything. Callaghan just wanted to beat you up, that's all."

"Yeah, well, " John said flinching slightly. "That doesn't make me feel better."

"You have to either quit that job of yours or get fast transportation, mate. You can't keep this up!"

"I know that." John murmured as they entered the locker room. "But I _need_ that job. I have to pay Harry's debt."

His friends fell silent, they knew it was a dangerous subject to bring up. John put down his bag in one of the wooden benches near the showers and took out his uniform. The blue and yellow colours representative of their school, St. Joseph, greeted him.

"Okay, then, that means you better buy a bicycle or something, because otherwise…"

"How is he going to get a bicycle if he doesn't have the money, Billy?"

John hummed in agreement as he changed shirts.

Billy raised an eyebrow. "By asking."

"Asking?"

"Yeah, y'know, that thing you just did." He replied amused. John, now in his WATSON 7 shirt, glared at him. "Mike and I have bicycles, we can lend them to you."

"It would be too much to ask of you. You are my friends, not my providers, and you have already helped me enough by giving me both your allowances last month to get more time to pay the debt." John said putting on his shorts and boots.

"John, we know how much this whole thing with Harry upsets you, but let us help you in any way we can." Mike told him with that calming smile he always had. _A doctor__'__s smile_, John thought.

"Just think of it this way. When you become captain you can pay us back by going easy on us, like, not making us run twenty laps like coach Callaghan-"

"-and letting us rest more than five seconds…"

"…and when you get that scholarship you want and become a doctor, then, _then, _you can pay us back with money."

John snorted as he stood up and put his bag in a locker. "Let's focus first on surviving this day."

"Watson!"

"Shit."

The three of them jumped and ran outside. Callaghan was clenching his jaw when they arrived at the field.

"Watson, go run. Murray, Stamford, with him."

Mike and Billy looked horrified. "But sir-"

"Now!"

* * *

"_Your bitch of a sister owes me five thousand pounds! You better pay me back at the end of this month, or you're dead, Watson."_

"_Five thousand pounds? Why did you need such amount of money, Harry?!"_

"_It was not the money… you don't know how it is, John. This craving, this absolute need to have a drink, to lose myself for a second and forget what a worthless piece of shit I am."_

_You are not the only one who feels like that, _John had wanted to tell her, _you are not the only one in this family that suffers. _But he couldn't bring himself to say that, he had to stay strong and not fall down, he had to do it for his mum as well.

He walked down his street still in his rugby uniform, kicking small stones and crushing leaves under his feet. He couldn't let this problem overwhelm him, he had to stay calm and think it through. His current income was not much. His job at Mr. Ainsley's grocery shop was not very productive; he was paid fifteen quid an hour and worked two hours after school before rugby practice.

He did not even have half the amount of the debt and there were only twenty days left to pay it. He hoped that if he earned at least three thousand, he could go over to Cal's, Harry's alcohol dealer, and ask - _beg - _for another month's time. He had no other choice.

Just as he started considering job hunting, he was manhandled into an alley, and pushed against a wall. He could feel someone's breath ghosting over his skin, a breath that stank of cheap liquor and cigars. Cal, then.

"Watson," he said as he leaned in and stared into John's eyes. His eyes were bloodshot.

John inhaled sharply detesting how Cal's horrid scent burned his lungs. "You said I had until the end of the month."

"I know what I said," Cal said, his voice husky. One of his hands rose and took John's chin. "That's not why'm here."

John swallowed looking away. "I don't care why you're here, let me go."

"You know," John clenched his hands as Cal's thumb pressed into his skin. "I had not noticed before how pretty you are."

John's heart sank. No. No. No.

"I should've seen it earlier. Your mum's pretty, your sister's pretty, so you are too." Cal placed his other hand on the wall, trapping John.

_Breathe,_ John told himself, _he's drugged and drunk, his reactions are slower, wait until he leans closer and then punch him in the gut._

"That's great. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get going."

As he expected, Cal moved his face closer to John's but his eyes were fixated on John's lips. "Rumour has it you won't be able to pay the debt, Watson. Not in money, at least." and he moved his head to the side, his intent clear.

John was having none of it. With a speed that surprised even himself, he struck Cal in the stomach and ran for it. He left the alley and ran in the opposite direction of his house. His hands were shaking and his head felt dizzy. _Probably the adrenaline_, he thought as he crossed the street glancing back to see if he was being followed. When he saw no one, he ducked into another alley and took a bus to the centre of the city. He needed to think and look for more jobs. He was not going to pay with the other option, definitely not.

Feeling the adrenaline still flowing through his veins, he sat at the back of the bus just as it started to rain.

* * *

**SHERLOCK**

1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

_1. _2. 3. 4. 5.

1. _2._ 3. 4. 5.

1. 2. _3._ 4. 5.

1. 2. 3._ 4. _5.

1. 2. 3. 4._ 5._

"Olivia, dear, it's five steps not four. Come here, we'll try again."

_What is it about that simple practice that that Olivia girl can't get? It's so simple, _Sherlock thought, _five steps, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. First, one must stand in fifth position while holding the barre. Second, slide one foot to the front and point to the floor while resting all body weight on the other._

He watched as Miss D'Aramitz performed the movements.

_Third, slide foot to the side. Fourth, slide foot to the back._

Olivia skipped the third step again. Sherlock sighed.

_Fifth, return to fifth position._

Both Miss D'Aramitz and Olivia did so before letting go of the barre and turning to face each other. Miss D'Aramitz gave Olivia a resigned look before stepping towards Sherlock who regarded her surprised.

"Sherlock," with her thick French accent resonating in the ballet studio. Several people (mothers of the children practicing), turned to look at him. "Could you please demonstrate for Olivia?"

No.

"No."

Miss D'Aramitz narrowed her eyes. "It wasn't really a request."

"Then why did you ask."

"I was being polite, something you could learn to be."

Sherlock glared at her, he had no time for stupid stuff like this, he was not here to show miniature people how to do a _battement tendu. _He glanced around and saw the other children "practicing", laughing and looking at their mothers for approval. _Would I have been like that if-?_

"Sherlock, _s__'__il vous pla__î__t.__"_

Without even laying his eyes on her, he stopped stretching his legs and stood up, walked to the barre and looked at himself in the mirror before turning on his side. He saw the child's (Olivia, around six years old, parents divorced) eyes widen in amazement as he performed the _tendu _perfectly while Miss D'Aramitz counted his steps. When he finished, Sherlock nodded at the child, who was still staring at him, and sat down again to continue stretching.

Half an hour later, the mothers sitting next to him were covering their children in thick layers of clothing as they prepared to leave. Miss D'Aramitz was saying goodbye to her young students and handling them an envelope.

"I expect to see you next week at the performance." She was saying. Sherlock wanted to kill her.

He marched towards her while shooting daggers at her with his eyes. She was not supposed to give those tickets away to inexperienced, idiotic children. Those tickets should be reserved only for those who took ballet seriously, who thought of it as an art and not just as a way to entertain mindless and careless infants.

Someone like him, who adored ballet more than anything.

"D'Aramitz, do not waste them."

Miss D'Aramitz ignored him. "Here you go, Olivia, I hope to see you next week."

Olivia, however, wasn't looking at her but at Sherlock, who frowned at her with confusion. Why was the girl looking at him like that? Had she really been that impressed by him? The child's mother took the tickets instead and with a pull to her daughter's hand, he took her out of the studio. Finally, only him and the french ballet instructor remained.

The only sound that accompanied Sherlock and Miss D'Aramitz for a long period of silence between them was the song playing from the old record-player situated against the wall. A basic, knowledgeable composition for ballet: _The Nutcracker. _Sherlock wondered what was apparently so brilliant about it that people regarded it as one of the best ballets of all time. It was usually the most obvious example, which made it boring, and it had been represented so many times that it had lost its charm.

Looking at Miss D'Aramitz he remembered she always spoke of how Tchaikovsky inspired so many feelings through his masterpiece, that he was a genius. Sherlock didn't see the appeal of his music, and when he had voiced this thought, she had given him a strange look he couldn't quite decipher.

Suddenly he just wanted to annoy her.

"Will you ever teach them something else than a _tendu _and a _pli__é__?__"_

Miss D'Aramitz turned to him with a sharp expression. "Maybe. I will when you have learned to keep your mouth shut."

"Never, then."

Miss D'Aramitz sighed. "_Alors, cinq arabesques, dix pirouettes et trois jet__é__. Rapidement._"

Sherlock grinned. Finally.

He adjusted his ballet shoes and walked until he reached the centre of the room. The dark mahogany wood below his feet was smooth as he strode. It was part of his dancing ritual to first breathe deeply for about two minutes, inhaling and exhaling to will his body to enter a complete state of relax. Then, he usually practiced a few arm and feet positions before taking a deep breath again. Once he did so, he was ready.

He gave Miss D'Aramitz a nod which she responded with a glare. She took out the Tchaikovsky LP, and replaced it with another one from the stand next to her.

Sherlock rose on his toes and began to dance. It was the most wonderful feeling on the world: the music playing in the background, him gliding through the floor like he was floating, suspended in time and space. Miss D'Aramitz had changed the melody to one of Sherlock's favourite ballets by Igor Stravinsky called _Agon_. The tune of the violins soothed him.

When he finished, Miss D'Aramitz was applauding, a small smile on her lips. "_Tr__è__s bien, Sherlock. _Perfect as always."

Sherlock knew that, of course. He had spent many years accomplishing that state of perfection, but that was not why he came to this studio and she knew it.

Miss D'Aramitz pursed her lips slightly. "However…"

Sherlock closed his eyes.

"…you still need to practice with other types of ballet. I changed the music for you so that you could feel more comfortable, but you and I both know that if you want the National Ballet to consider you, you have to be able to dance to every single piece while showing the right emotion."

A sharp intake of breath. "I know that."

"Then let's try it again but with _The Nutcracker_."

He did so, feeling disconnected. The music did not inspire the same satisfying feelings Stravinsky caused in him. _Waltz of the Flowers_'s tune was soft and delicate, the violins were sweet and the flutes gave it a dream-like effect. It was boring, and overrated.

With a spin, Sherlock finished his dance and stood in third position frustrated. He had been trying to dance to Tchaikovsky with the assistance of Miss D'Aramitz, who had been one of the best ballet dancers of her time, for months. She had danced to Tchaikovky's ballets _for years, _she was supposed to be the best to help him, and yet, here he was still failing to feel the dance.

"Sherlock…"

He knew what she was going to say. 'Let's try again', 'This time you'll get it right', 'It's all in your head, if you block the feelings the music evokes in you, you won't be able to perform as perfectly as you want'. He didn't want to hear that anymore.

"I'll be going, now. You said half an hour everyday, and half an hour has passed. I'll see you tomorrow." He sat down, took off his ballet shoes, pulled his trousers over his leotard, and put on his standard school shoes. Miss D'Aramitz said nothing as he shrugged on his long coat and tied his navy blue scarf around his neck. Nonetheless, as he made his way towards the door, a delicate hand closed around his wrist. He turned to look his instructor in the eye.

"Don't be so hard on yourself, Sherlock. You are only seventeen years old, you still have some time to-"

"I don't-"

"Listen to me," she said taking both of his hands into hers. "You came to me because you wanted my advice."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Your advice on _my ballet_.", he clarified.

"This is about ballet," She took out an envelope from her pocket and placed it in his hands. "Go and see the performance, look closely at the dancers and use that amazing brain of yours to detect what is it that they have and you don't, and then correct what you must."

And just like that, she went back into the studio.

* * *

The Yard Studio was not far from Miss D'Aramitz's, so Sherlock decided to walk. He also needed to clear his mind, to blank it for some time so that he could look at his situation with rational, professional eyes. He could not let emotion cloud his judgement.

Looking up the sky, he let the cold wind graze his face. He closed his eyes. London. It was one of those places he just wanted to take over and make it his own. He felt the need show this place what he could do, to demonstrate his talent.

Boys in school were always making fun of him, whispering amongst themselves as he passed them in the school's canteen, hiding his books even though they knew he would find them in mere minutes, and calling him names. One time, they had even gone as far as opening his bag, and taking out his leotard. They had ripped it to pieces in front of him before marching away pleased with themselves.

"Faggot," One of them had said, "That's what you are."

He had almost cried that night as he clutched his ruined leotard to his chest. It was the only one he had, what would he wear for practice now? He thought about asking Mycroft for money only to remember what his brother had told him a few days before: "I will not support your hobby, Sherlock, you know why."

Asking his parents was out of the question, totally and completely. He was not going back to that house ever again. The only option left had been Victor, his one and only friend. Victor had given him the money he needed for a new leotard with a smile, "You know I will always be here for you."

After suffering for the only thing he liked, the only activity that could make him relax and shut off his brain for some time, he was not going to give up, not even if money was a problem at the moment.

A drop of rain startled him out of his musings. Quickly closing his coat securely around his body, he started running when it started pouring. His steps caused water to splash on his trousers, drenching them as he passed the hurried Londoners. About fifteen minutes later, he found himself a few feet from the entrance to The Yard. With quick strides he approached the door, opened it and let himself inside…

…to find a blond boy wearing a blue and yellow uniform.


End file.
